Fallen Colossus
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: A return to Egypt teaches Yami a very harsh lesson...and all that's left is a cracked and shattered visage against a cornflower blue sky. [Dedicated to Chibizoo! =^_^=]


Fallen Colossus

By: Neko-chan

  
  


A/N: Written and dedicated to the wonderful Chibizoo! Wonderful, wonderful author who also has a twisted sense of humor--something that I enjoy very much. *evil grin* Anyway, this story/fic/whatever-you-want-to-call-it is dedicated to you because of your... Your... Um... Your... Greatness! *nods* Yes, your greatness. *bows at feet and kicks Yami 'n' Bakura in the shins until they do as well* 

Yami 'n' Bakura: *grumble about sadistic authoresses/authors (POINTED LOOKS) who never leave them alone* ...

Heh. Anyway, hope you like it! ^_^ Oh, this fic was inspired by the poem "Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

DISCLAIMER: Due to the fact that the Black Magician is indisposed of at this point (BM: ... *knocked out by Neko-chan's Frying Pan of Doom* ...), I'll be doing my own disclaimer. I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!...but all of that will change when I take over the world. Until that moment in the not-so-distant-future, I can't claim any legal ownership of Yu-Gi-Oh!. Mou... _

  
  
  
  


Rolling hills of it--stretching as far as the eye can see. Dark gold reaching to the horizon, making the wanderer wonder if it goes on forever. Sand. Just... Sand. There's no end to it. It's everywhere, getting in every nook and cranny of my body and in my clothing--in my shoes, in my pants, my shirt, even in my hair. I can feel the gritty-ness of it as it rubs against my scalp.

My eyes feel gritty as well, and I wonder if sand had managed to seep into them...or if it's me resisting the urge to cry.

I had forgotten this. I had forgotten all of this, this memory of my homeland, locked somewhere deep within my own mind and within the Sennen Items. The landscape all around me is harsh and unrelenting, monotonous in its unchanging-ness. And yet... It still manages to feel like home. I haven't set foot in this land for over three thousand years and it still feels like home. I can't even remember it. But it's still home.

I begin to step away from the river--did I really sail down it while I was alive and still held the title of 'Pharaoh'?--and make my way deeper into the desert. The sun beats upon my head and I can see heat shimmers rising up from the sand. But I can't feel the heat. As much as I would love to be able to feel again, I can't. I'm dead. Or, at least, I'm so close to being dead that feeling such things doesn't seem to matter anymore.

I can feel aibou reaching out to me through our link as I slip and slide down a dune, not knowing where I was headed, just allowing my feet to carry me where they wished. Idly, I wondered where I would end up. ...did it really matter anymore? I was home, home _felt_ like home, but it just didn't seem to BE home. Confusing, yes. But _I_ was confused.

/Yami?/

I shoot a glance over my shoulder and see Yuugi watching me with those wide, violet eyes of his, shaded under a palm tree. //Nani, aibou?// Step by step, I walk further away from him, still making my way towards the unknown destination. Only my feet know where they are leading me--and they aren't telling. I smile slightly at this. It seems as if I had made a joke. Yuugi would be so proud.

And it is aibou who brings me back to the present. /Yami... You _will_ come back, won't you?/

I have no answer for him.

On and on I walk, making my way deeper and deeper into the Sahara, ignoring the bright sun overhead and the sand making its way deeper into my clothes. I'm lost in thought and lost in memory--but I don't mind the last part. After all, up until just a little bit ago, I would have done almost anything to remember _something_ from my past. Now memories come to me every so often--flashing by like hummingbirds, too fast for me to really see the pictures that they contain.

But aibou knows this and so he shares his memories with me.

...I still want my own, though. I want to know who I am, what type of person I was--I want to know about me. Sometimes I feel so lost, so lonely--trying to find a past that I can't remember, trying to see if the person who I am now is just a charade, a facade to hide the person who I _really_ am. I can't answer any of these questions, though. I wish I could, but I can't.

I'm just a wanderer through time.

...which brings me to another train of thought: Time eventually wears everything down. Will I begin to wear down, to fade, as well? I don't know if I'm overjoyed at that aspect or if I'm terrified out of my mind of it. It doesn't matter anymore, anyway. I've stopped caring.

My feet stop moving.

They haven't been moving for a while.

I manage to jerk myself out of my reverie, losing dark and despairing thoughts in the maze that is my mind. I hope that they'll never find me again, but I know that they'll be back. I just hope that I can manage to lose those thoughts for just a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer... Was that really too much to ask for?

My hand touches sun-warmed stone and I blink in surprise. I look down upon it, and then follow the profile of the statue up...and up...and up. My hand is resting against a statue.

Cracks march their way up and down the statue, obscuring features and making it almost impossible to tell who the statue was modeled after. The profile and visage of the face is gone, eroded by time, sun, and sand. In a way, the statue is sad--trying so hard to weather against the elements...and losing so very, very badly.

I finally notice an inscription along the bottom of the statue and brush sand away, trying my hardest not to look up anymore at the statue. It was pathetic, in a sense--profile almost completely gone, bits and pieces cracked off, standing on one sole leg. A shattered visage and ruined features. The aura of command the statue exuded was pale--almost as if the statue was tired. Tired with everything--the sand, the sun, just standing there, century after century, forgotten to all of the world.

My eyes widen as I read the words on the pedestal:

"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

'Ozymandias'... The name rings throughout my mind, repeating over and over again until I want to scream and cry, filling my mind with my own tears and my own long-forgotten name. ...a name? Do I even _have_ a name? Did I _ever_ have a name???

Ozymandias. Yes, I knew that name well. It was the Greek name for Ramses II. Ramses the Great. Our greatest Pharaoh and perhaps the greatest ruler the world has ever seen. And will never see again. A Pharaoh. Our Pharaoh. Our _great_ Pharaoh...

A shattered visage...

A statue, lost and alone in the desert...

Forgotten to all of the world...

Mighty and great works long forgotten...

Nothing stood against the test of time...

Decaying and eroding away...

"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" words spoken by our greatest King, our greatest Pharaoh, echo 'round and 'round in my mind, never ending and never ceasing. They would never cease.

I tilt back my head and scream my despair and my fury at the cornflower blue sky, ignoring salty-sweet beads of liquid tears as they drip down my face to bury themselves in the sand at my feet. And still, the golden sands stretch away into the horizon, never ending.

"My name is Ozymandias..."

And I despaired.


End file.
